


Kinktober Ficlets 2017: Somnophilia

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Ficlet, Holmesiarty, I got called out for saying it's romantic, I think it's a bit romantic, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Somnophilia, but it's a bit romantic, so there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 16:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12585756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Holmes: a sleeping beauty, and Moriarty: a crafty beast.





	Kinktober Ficlets 2017: Somnophilia

There is a high, chemical stink hovering on his lips, and inside them, and on his tongue stained blue-purple by the wine in which the drops were swirled. By the time he’d deduced it, he was slurring and softening and all but compliant as he was arranged on his back on the bed, all long-legged and fading into dreamless sleep.

Moriarty never kisses them when they are awake and aware. An open mouth is as good as an upturned belly, so he will curse and bite but never kiss, only bend them over, persuade them down, take and use and throw aside. But this. This elegant, smooth-browed face. These slack dry lips he can wet with his own tongue. He kisses and kisses, soft and probing until he cannot but force the chin down with the press of his thumb, and lick inside, wet, hot, soft and unresisting.

Each button is slid through its slot with slowness, thrilling himself with the tease of skin bared by slivered increments. His lips and tongue trace the path from throat to heartbeat to crinkling nipple, and he sucks, licks, rests there with his cheek against the curve of pectoral muscle, watching the gentle, even rise and fall of his breath in perfect repose. A sleeping brat-prince laid out on offer. Moriarty goes on kissing until the shirtfront is split wide to bare chest and belly, and the temptation to rip into that billowy-soft flesh with gnashing incisors sends a shiver through him. Moriarty shudders, huffing a thick breath that raises gooseflesh on the fine-haired forearm.

The weight of him, every muscle and nerve surrendered to sleep, as Moriarty works his trousers open, slides them down to bare his thighs–thick muscled and firm even now–is wildly arousing; the liquidy stillness of him. Perfectly yielding. Warm like death. Silent. Moriarty spends endless long minutes working his slick lips and greedy tongue over and around the sleep-soft prick, nuzzling and nudging, licking the crepey skin of his bollocks, digging in his tongue to feel the bead-like innards, sucking them to bruises. The hair of his thighs against the tips of his fingers. The ridges of muscle and the knobs of bone. Moriarty strokes and strokes him, petting everywhere he can reach, for ages. He cannot get enough of the hands–curved and collapsing in the palm of his own, each finger curled gently–and by the time he has finished looking, licking, scraping with teeth, he is rampant, panting, drunken, intoxicated, moaning praise and curses to deaf ears as he tangles his own fingers between, wraps the soft hand around his own hot hardness, wanting not to be beastly to his slumbering beauty but in the end fucking hard and fast, intently watching the stillness of his face. The spikes of his eyelashes. The fine blue tinge of his eyelids and the pink-violet hair’s-breadth veins beneath them. His parted lips. His quiet breath.

Moriarty tucks himself away and does up his buttons. He rearranges his dreamer’s clothes into more or less their proper order and lays a shallower kiss into the soft slit of his mouth. Leaves the spunk to dry in his palm.


End file.
